


If I could give my breath away (I would)

by StupidFatPenguin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Memory Loss, Thorin Oakenshield Is a Dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidFatPenguin/pseuds/StupidFatPenguin
Summary: The first thing Thorin sees when he wakes up is his own hand resting on the bedsheets. Atop it rests another, smaller hand. It feels warm and looks soft, the skin unworried by forge burns and blemishes. It is not a dwarf’s hand; he knows as much. Yet he cannot quite gather for himself if that is of any importance.Or, Thorin loses his memory and quite forgets that the hobbit by his bedside whom he wishes to court and marry is already his husband. Everyone else find this hilarious.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 72
Kudos: 1100





	If I could give my breath away (I would)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Salty calling! c:
> 
> This is a based on a prompt I found in the Hobbit Kink Meme, and I wanted to use it for a warm-up... except it grew on me, and now I have 5k words of Thorin being a dork.
> 
> I took some liberties with the prompt, which is based on that viral video of the guy waking up from his surgery forgetting he is married to his wife and proceeds to flirt with her.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> -
> 
> The original prompt: [LINK](https://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=23883732#t23883732)
> 
> _What if Bilbo and a dwarf gets married in Laketown while the rest of the Company watch on as witness, but after BOFA said dwarf gets short term memory loss and can't remember his marriage?_
> 
> _Cue dwarf waking up on his sickbed to this gorgeous hobbit taking care of him and falls in love and tells any dwarf (healer, family) that he wishes to court the hobbit._
> 
> _Bring forth the courting and dwarf asking Bilbo to run away and get married together while Bilbo just smiles and tells said dwarf that they are already married, with the dwarf having this awed look every time Bilbo tells him that._
> 
> _+10 if the dwarf is Thorin!  
>  +100 if he tells maybe Balin/Dwalin/Dain that he's going to marry the hobbit even if he has to court him till the day he dies  
> +1000 if an elf smacks the dwarf over the head and tells him to realize that they're already married  
> +10000 if said dwarf is all embarrassed when he regains his memory_

The first thing Thorin sees when he wakes is his own hand resting on the bedsheets. Atop it rests another, smaller hand. It feels warm and looks soft, the skin unworried by forge burns and blemishes. It is not a dwarf’s hand; he knows as much. Yet he cannot quite gather for himself if that is of any importance.

Curious, still sleep-addled and unwary, he follows the hand to where a slender wrist disappears into a deep, blue coat-sleeve of fine make; up and up his gaze trails and finally settles upon the face of the most enchanting being Thorin has ever laid his eyes upon.

He tries to turn his head to get a better look, but the movement is far more difficult than it should be and his vision swims before him. He groans for the dizziness that hits him, but once it clears the dream-like being by his bedside is still there, its hand clutching his gently.

“You… are not a dream.” He croaks the words out, for his throat is parched with long sleep.

“No, I’m right here with you,” says the being, his voice a sweet and comforting sound. He reaches for the bedside table and fills a cup there with water. “Here, drink this.”

He holds the cup up to Thorin’s lips, and he drinks deeply and gratefully, but struggles to keep his eyes off the fay-like creature over the blurred rim of the cup. He is quick to quench his thirst, and once the cup is put down he returns to observing him, trying to puzzle together what such a mysterious, sweet little thing is doing by his bedside.

He can see now that he is clearly no dwarf, for his face is entirely bare of growth, excepting the many tussled curls that frame it. Yet, this does not detract from his comeliness: indeed, something in Thorin finds the sight of him very pleasing, although again he cannot say why that is. He is small, smaller and softer than a dwarf, yet he is decidedly not a mannish child. His face is not that of a youth; his eyes are wizened and set a little deeper.

The word ‘halfling’ comes to mind, and although that might be what he is, Thorin would believe it if he told him he was a fairy sent to give him pleasant dreams. And what pleasant dreams they would be, for the very sight of him sets him alight, stirs fire and heat in every part of his being, and he cannot but think that he must be the most beautiful creature in all the world.

“Thorin?” The sound of his name from the halfling’s lips startles him out of his stupor, and he realises he must have tried speaking to him. But as their eyes meet Thorin cannot remember why it would be important.

“ _Mahal_ …” He breathes and looks at him. “How he is gracious, to bless me with such a sight for my weary eyes.”

The halfling tries to conceal a laugh, turns his head away in a poor attempt to hide it. It only serves to make him more stunning, the fall of his lovely bronze curls around a leaf-like ear, and the comely crinkles at the corners of his eyes. And his smile…

“Did the healers send you?”

“Of sorts,” he admits softly, his hand again atop Thorin’s, stroking the skin there. He feels _soft_. “They said I might wait a while but. I wanted to be here when you woke up.”

He gasps, feeling for a long moment utterly awed that such a lovely being has been waiting by his bedside, looking over him, nursing him, holding his cup to his mouth for him to drink. He feels humbled, his senses yet too dulled to allow any of the embarrassment he knows he should feel for… whatever reason. It must not matter much, for all he can think of is how he should very much like to see this halfling each and every time he wakes. For the remainder of his days.

“What is your name?” Thorin has to know it.

The halfling looks at him, confusion apparent on his face. “You don’t remember me?”

“I should like to very much,” he confesses, breathily. “Have we met?”

The halfling gives him a small smile that has his chest aflutter, but Thorin dislikes the worry marring his brow. “Yes, a long time ago. My name is Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“And I at yours.” He gives him what he hopes is a meaningful look. “Gladly so.”

The halfling snorts behind a closed fist, attempting to conceal it with a cough, but his cheeks redden as prettily as Thorin had imagined they would. A hint of satisfaction curls in his belly, but before he can say more there is a knock on the door and another dwarf — _Balin!_ His old friend! — enters.

“Balin! Thank goodness you’re here.”

The enticing creature— _Bilbo_ —lets go of his hand and stands up to meet the approaching dwarf, and Thorin would have moaned his complaints had he not been treated to the visage of the most delectable bottom he has ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. He notices only then as his eyes trail lower that Bilbo walks barefoot, and his feet are… strangely large in size for one of his stature. Although, the longer he looks, the more charming they become, with their neat curls and sturdy toes. And for all their queerness, Thorin would not be opposed to wrapping his hands around those ankles and kiss them sweetly, perhaps even rest them on his shoulders, if he could afford to be so bold.

“Ah! He’s awake,” Balin remarks in his familiar brogue as he comes up to the bed, briefly dispelling his burgeoning imaginations. “Thorin! It is good to see you in the lands of the living. How are you feeling, laddie?”

Thorin looks to Bilbo again, to his encouraging smile and glittering eyes that surely rival the most stunning gems of a dwarfish hoard and sighs his longing. “ _Blessed.”_

Bilbo and Balin share a look, but Thorin is far too preoccupied to decipher its meaning. He would rather look his fill and finish cataloguing the precious stones and metals he could liken to Bilbo’s lovely, lush hair. He should very much like to put his beads there. Something like emerald— _no, Durin blue_ , only the deepest sapphires would do, set with true silver if he could afford so that they would bring out his eyes.

“He has been a bit—ahem. He is not making that much sense at the moment, and he didn’t seem to remember me earlier. I, ehm… you don’t suppose it could be a bad sign?”

“Aye, perhaps. Although the healers did say the medicines would cloud his mind until it’s washed out. It is preferable to the pain, of course, but combined with his headwound… Say, why don’t you fetch Óin and have him come look at him, and I will see for myself how lucid he is.”

Bilbo nods and makes to leave. The sudden movement snaps Thorin out of his fantasies of silver among bronzed curls spread out on blue sheets.

_“No!”_ he cries, moving to take hold of Bilbo’s arm yet only managing to pinch his sleeve between his weakened fingers. Still he succeeds in halting his departure.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, calmly and placating. “I’m only finding you a healer. You need to get better.”

“Will you not stay? I know that I—I know I haven’t much, but if I can only look, if I could have only so little—”

“You are making no sense. I will only be gone for a minute!”

Thorin stops, slowly letting go of the sleeve in his hand. “Will I see you again?”

Bilbo smiles again, and it is sweet and obliging and almost _pitying_ which Thorin finds he dislikes, but his words are what he wishes to hear. “Of course you will. As often as you like.”

He grins, stupidly surely, but finds he cannot care for Bilbo shakes his head fondly before he leaves. Thorin watches him go, releasing a wistful sigh as he shuts the door behind him. “ _By Durin’s beard…_ what I would endure… what I would give to know him.”

Balin clears his throat, attempting to claim his attentions from the sweet paths it wanders. He gains it on the second cough, but Thorin finds it difficult to follow along with the words.

“I’m sure you will have plenty opportunities. Now, Thorin. Do you remember who I am?”

Thorin hears the question, finds it somewhat absurd. “You are Balin. Son of Fundin. My oldest friend, my loyal companion. I shan’t ever forget the trials we have bested together.”

Balin smiles in remembrance, nodding his approval. “And neither shall I. Now. Do you know where we are?”

Thorin opens his mouth to answer, but the more he looks around the room, at the carved mountain-walls made of strong, marbled stone, the more his addled head confounds and confuses him. “I would say in our halls in the Blue Mountains… but this stone… I know these walls.”

He looks at Balin who nods sombrely.

“Balin… are we… this cannot be.”

“It is, Thorin.” His friend still smiles, but seems deeply touched by their common grief then, of the yearning long rooted in their very souls, the one that drove them both to prepare to undertake a quest to return to what was once taken from them… “Erebor.”

A gasp escapes him. Many feelings rush through his addled mind, and he finds he is missing something, something crucial, _many crucial things_ , but one thing becomes clear to him.

“We are home… after so long. Balin. We succeeded.”

Balin smiles through his beard, a real, genuine smile of pride and hope. “That we did, my King.”

Somewhere in the depths of his mind he knows this is important, that there is tremendous weight in these words, this title, but he cannot quite remember what it is. He feels as if he is waddling about like a lost duckling in a heavy fog, and the answers to all his feelings and notions and questions will be revealed once it lifts. And while being awake is dizzying and confusing, these past moments since waking shine with the most clarity, like the arrival of his friend, and the appearance of…

“ _Bilbo…_ ” The name is but a whisper on his lips, and the vision of the dazzling halfling fills him again, of his careful touch and his gorgeous smile, and he had promised to come again, he had. And now Thorin could—he will tell him, tell him he is _King_ , that surely this means he has something to offer him.

His eyes wander and meet the deep-set stare of his old friend.

“Balin. You’re here.” He says, recognising the old dwarf. But the room around him confounds him, for the stone is familiar, but from a distant past—marbled and green in hue, not the bleak, dreary stone of Ered Luin. “Are we… in Erebor?”

Balin gives him the sort of look he usually receives when he fails to practice his diplomacy, usually ending up brashly offending some important tradesman of some sort or someone else of high standing. It is a sort of familiar disproval, but it is also muddled with deep worry, and Thorin can’t think of why that would be, except…

The dizziness returns. He groans as it rounds to a peak, then slowly vanes and vanishes.

“Take it slow and easy, laddie. You were wounded,” he hears a voice through the haze— _Balin_ , it’s Balin’s voice, his old friend is stood there by his bed looking deeply concerned.

“Was there a battle?” he asks.

“An ambush, on your return from the Iron Hills. No casualties.”

For a long moment Thorin thinks on how strange that is. He has not been thus far east since… He cannot quite remember. It feels very long ago.

But then. He looks around the room. “This place… Balin. How are we here?”

Balin looks at him with an exasperated and pitying frown. It doesn’t settle well with him, but before he can question it further the doors open, and a flurry of dwarves make their way inside—one, two, _three_ of them, and one is his cousin Óin, and another his cousin _Dáin_ —and following at their heels is—

“Bilbo!” He tries to sit up, but his body fights him and sinks back down, limbs heavy as lead, and he only manages to turn his head to feel a little closer. Óin scolds him something fiercely for the attempt, but it hardly matters at all for the sweet halfling is there in a moment, his hand back in his. He cannot but grin and clench the soft hand in his own the best he can.

Bilbo has returned to him, as he said he would.

He is faintly aware of the shuffle around him, of Óin and another dwarf who press and prod his bones and bandages, but it is of no concern and his attentions are preoccupied again by the lovely creature by his bedside. Bilbo doesn’t look at him—he seems to observe the healer and whatever he is doing—but it matters not as it gives Thorin ample opportunity to drink his sight once more.

“What is the last thing you can remember?”

His nose is a charming round thing. Thorin should very much like to kiss it.

“Thorin,” says Bilbo.

“I should like to marry you,” says Thorin.

“ _Thorin,_ ” says Bilbo again, but it is with a note of exasperated fondness and a grin he doesn’t even attempt to hide this time. “We will talk about this later. Please answer Óin’s questions.”

He will, he decides. He will do whatever Bilbo asks of him if he will keep holding his hand so gently and smile at him so sweetly. There is a squeeze on his shoulder and Óin’s old, scrutinizing face obscures his field of vision.

“Right then, your Majesty. Tell me the last thing you remember.”

Again, Thorin opens his mouth, but words elude him for a long time. There had been a battle, Balin had mentioned the Iron Hills, but the last place Thorin remembers residing is… “I was… away from the Blue Mountain. I was arranging a meeting… for… for…”

He cannot recall, and it frustrates him greatly. It will not come to him, and nothing seems to stick. Only Balin’s words from earlier surface in his addlebrained mind.

“I am King. There was an ambush… I was wounded, and…are we in Erebor?”

“Yes, very good,” Óin says slowly, but it mustn’t be very good at all for he shakes his head at Balin and—and _Bilbo_ , who looks at him all pitying smiles again, but still _so very lovely_ in that blue coat of his, with his hair so loose and tantalizing for _surely_ it would look so much prettier if he would allow for Thorin to put his braid there.

“I would give you sapphires,” he offers.

“I have no need for them,” says Bilbo, not unkindly, and pours more water into a cup.

“I would,” he tries, but Bilbo bids him drink again, so he downs the cup as quickly as he is allowed. He hadn’t realised he was so parched. “I still would, for your kindness. I could give you other gems, if you prefer them. Or silver, I could make—If you would wear them, I could make you rings, for your fingers. Your hands are so soft.”

“Thorin, you don’t have to give me anything.”

“ _Gold_ then,” he insists, scrambling to find something, _anything_ that the halfling might accept. “There is plenty of it. You shall have a room full, if you wish. I will take you to the markets, and you shall have whatever you ask. Jewels and fine silk, coats with silver threading—I would give you flowers.”

He stops then and frowns. He hadn’t meant to name such an present, does not know why he had offered it, but the thought had slipped so easily past his lips and had felt oddly… right to say.

And Bilbo, too, smiles as if it had been the right thing to say, and turns to the squabbling dwarves beside him. “Well, he is in there somewhere.”

“I don’t doubt he is,” grumbles Óin. “What worries me is what Balin’s telling me. That he keeps forgetting. Might just be my concoction was a bit strong on him, but without any convenient elfish magic at hand I did the best I could for the poison. And it worked! But his head doesn’t like it very much.”

“But he will recover?”

“We need to give him time to rid himself of the toxins… keep him hydrating, keep him rinsing it out. Get some strength in him. Then we can assess just how much this is his head’s doing and how much’s due to the medicine.”

Bilbo nods, and squeezes Thorin’s hand once more. He could grow very used to this, he thinks. And Bilbo’s voice and the warmth spreading through his skin is far easier to focus on than the fast-paced conversations around him that only serves to make him woozy with the strain of trying to piece together what he has… lost. He hears the words, knows somewhere that they’re important for him to know, but he should much rather know what he should say to make the halfling laugh for him again. How to make him blush prettily, as he had before.

“My cousin’s a stubborn bastard if I ever saw one! A blade through the chest couldn’t wipe him off the face of this world. A wee hammering to the head won’t put a stop in him! Get him up and walkin’ about, he will recover before ye can say ‘supper’s ready’!” This is said by another vaguely familiar voice Thorin hasn’t heard in a long time, and then an arm wraps under his and heaves him up.

Instinctively, he goes to follow and wills his body to come up with him, but the dizzying haze from before hits him like a war-hammer to the skull. The pain crescendos and he vaguely hears someone order him put back down. He comes to again, laid back against his pillows, watching hazily as Bilbo gives his cousin Dáin a right scolding as if he was a young dwarfling caught sneaking into the ale rather than the Lord of the Iron Hills.

“—been in obvious pain ever since he woke up, and you think you can remedy it all by jerking him up by the arm like a ripe turnip! Tell me, Dáin, for while I’m sure you’ve recounted your prowess in battle many times, I cannot seem to recall you having any medical expertise!”

He spins around, and Thorin holds his breath. He is as enticing in his anger as he is in his equanimity.

“And you, Mister Oakenshield, will do as your healers say and stay still in your sickbed. You are not to exert yourself until you’re well. No more shaking your brain around in that thick skull of yours! Do I make myself clear?”

Thorin gapes, and slowly, _carefully_ nods, all while his heart thumps quite madly in the cage of his chest. He is perfect. Simply so. Sweet and good and humble and gentle, but fierce and protective and caring and fully capable of giving a _Lord_ and a _King_ a full dressing-down for their stubbornness. He will surely make the perfect consort for a newly crowned king.

“Alright. Good.” Bilbo seems satisfied with his response. “Well then. Óin, you said something about building some strength. Do you think he can manage oats and meats?”

“Start him on some broth. If he doesn’t send any back up, we can try him on the oats.”

“Right, I will get on that then. I’m sure Bombur’s got something ready in the kitchens.”

He knows Bilbo is about to leave, but before he goes this time, he leans down to Thorin to—to _press his soft lips_ carefully to his hand. The touch explodes beneath his skin into trailing fires, and he is sure his heart will work itself through his chest with how hard it beats against it.

“I’ll be back soon,” Bilbo promises, and Thorin believes him. Then, he’s gone, leaving Thorin alone in his room.

Except he is not, for there is Balin, speaking in soft tones with Óin and another dwarf wearing a healer’s clothes, and by his bedside stands—

“Dáin. My kin.” Thorin grins, still feeling the sudden glee gathering in him and threatening to spill out of his chest.

“It is good to see you awake, cousin,” Dáin greets. “Knew ye wouldn’t keel over for some stray orc scum’s poison blades. Sad that rock got the better of yer hard head.”

“Did you see him?”

“Whom?”

“The halfling. Bilbo. Did you see him?”

Dáin gives him a look. “Yes, I know him well. Fierce little thing, the hobbit.”

Thorin breathes out his delighted agreement and sinks blissfully into his feather-filled pillows. “His hair. It’s like—”

“Shimmering bronze inlaid with seams of gold and sunlight, yes yes. Heard this one before—when you were deep in yer tankard night before the weddin—”

“I will marry him.”

Dáin sigh, and Thorin prepares to ignore naysaying that is sure to follow. “Thorin—”

“No, nothing you say will deter me!”

“I’m not deterring you, cousin. Didn’t say nothing that could stop you the first time.”

“Hear my words and remember them, for I mean to court him and wed him,” he says, gravely. “Be it until the day I die.”

“That’s very nice, my King,” says Óin’s assisting healer from where he’s tending to a wound over his chest. “Now please stop moving lest you tear the stitches.”

-

When Thorin comes to, the lights are lower, and more candles have been lit.

He remembers waiting. Remembers trying to be still and behave, but after Óin let him relieve himself he had made him drink more water. It had not tasted as sweet as when from the halfling’s hand, and that is the last thing he had thought on before the haze darkened around him and he could think no more…

There is movement by his bedside, and he turns and finds Bilbo there, reading by the candlelight.

“You’ve returned to me.”

The halfling startles, but only briefly before he closes his book and turns his ever-gentle smile to him. The candlelight paints him in warm shades of sweet promise. Here, in the darkened room, the allure of him grows and his want for him grows with it.

“You were asleep for a while. I kept the broth warm by the fire,” says Bilbo, and Thorin hasn’t noticed him preparing a bowl of soup before the tray is placed conveniently over his lap. He lifts a spoon to his own mouth and blows on it before offering it to Thorin who is far to transfixed on the ‘o’ of his lips to understand what’s wanted from him before the spoon rests on his own.

He slurps it down, and Bilbo smiles so sweetly that he cannot but continue sipping from the spoon until the bowl is all emptied and put aside in favour of his water-cup.

“Run away with me.” He pleads once the cup is put away. “We will run, far from this place and make our own, just the two of us.”

“Thorin, we cannot leave Erebor.” Bilbo says. “You are the King. Remember?”

“Ah,” says Thorin, frowning. “I had forgotten.”

Which is the truth. Bilbo chuckles as he helps Thorin to lean up while he straightens the sheets and fluffs the pillows.

“But we may still wed?”

“Thorin,” says Bilbo, and he will never tire of him saying his name like so— “We’re married.”

His heart stops a little. “No… to _whom?_ ”

“To _each other_ , you… silly old dwarf. I’m your husband.”

He asks something else, something about oats and more food, and Thorin will answer him. Only he needs to recall how to speak in the common speech, for the only words that find him then are a litany of prayers in his mother-tongue. “ _Mine…_ _By the Maker, let it be so. Let it be true—to be so blessed—to be granted such a treasure…”_

“Are you… alright there? Should I call on Óin?” and his eyes are on Bilbo—sweet, kind, beautiful Bilbo—who only looks at him in bright confusion. He still holds his hand in his.

“ _You_ are my husband.”

“Yes,” smiles Bilbo. “Now, are you still hungry or would you rather sleep?”

There is a gnawing hunger in him, but not for bodily nourishment. There is a matrimonial right he should very much like to make use of, for he has wondered far too long on the flavour of the halfling’s lips should he taste them, and he is _Thorin’s husband_ and he very much wants to kiss him—

Except he fail to recall his weakened vessel, and what should have been a well-executed surge up to claim his love’s lips in a romantic embrace ends in a shaking dizzy-spell and Thorin almost tumbling to the floor had soft arms not been there to push him back to his resting place.

“Sleep it is, then,” he hears someone say, and vaguely feels a soft kiss to his brow as he falls into dreamless sleep.

-

It is morning, and Thorin listens dutifully as Óin details his injuries and his prognosis for recovery—or, he pretends to, for it makes Bilbo smile and nod at him as if he is being very good, and he should like for the halfling to think highly of him. He takes the medicines as prescribed, and while they yet make him feel hazy, the pain is more bearable with them.

When Bilbo is not there, there is plenty of other company to be had. Thorin behaves as best he can, but cannot keep Bilbo from his mind, nor praise for him from his tongue.

Perhaps he has convinced Dáin, finally, that the halfling will make a good match for him, for his cousin only laughs good-naturedly and encourages him to go on in his detailing of just how perfectly he would fit in at court, or in Thorin’s chambers wearing his colours, of his sweet laugh and charming nose, and all else he can think of. Perhaps he shouldn’t say as much as he does, but he cannot for the life of him recall _why_ he shouldn’t tell the whole mountain that he intends to marry, that he will court the charming halfling and wed him in the halls of his ancestors before all the folk of Durin—

Óin smacks him across the back “For Mahal’s sake, your Majesty—you already married the lad!”

Just as his old cousin goes on about how they’ve told him this a multitude of time already, the doors open, and Bilbo comes through them.

“You’re my husband?” is the first thing he asks, and Bilbo looks curiously between every dwarf in the room.

“Yes. As I’ve told you, let’s see… four times this morning?”Thorin can hardly breathe for the sweet, euphoric sensation that washes through him.

“You’re _my_ husband… Oh, Mahal has been good to me.” He stares long at the halfling’s face. “Have we kissed yet?”

Bilbo coughs into his hand but gives a curt nod.

“Have we—”

“Yes! Yes, we have, _all of that_. But please, Thorin, don’t speak of it _here_ for all your family to hear!”

Thorin obeys, for how can he not when the halfling pleads to sweetly, and he feels a stupid grin grow across his face as he looks from Bilbo and then to the ceiling, quietly shaking a triumphant fist in the air.

“And will we—”

“Oh confounded— _Thorin_ , yes we will, once you’re better, now _please_ stop talking about it!”

“Right, yes. That is acceptable.” He turns and strokes his hand over Bilbo’s. “I will look forward to it.”

His grin doesn’t vane, even as Bilbo buries his flushing face in his hands.

Dáin laughs so hard he rolls out of his chair.

-

It takes another day for the memories to start sticking, and by the end of the next two much of Thorin’s memory returns to him. He is, however, mortified that much of what had been done and said in his injured haze sticks as well, and the rest he hears of in great detail from his kin and long-suffering husband.

Bilbo, of course, reassures him not to take it too hard, that none of them mean anything malicious by it, and that he is just as embarrassed as Thorin so they will simply have to suffer through it together.

“You don’t understand. I told Dáin in _explicit detail_ how much I admire your feet,” he laments to the hobbit who is busying himself cleaning out the bandages on his head.

“Yes—well, I was… flattered?”

Thorin groans, sinking deeper into his bedding and almost hope to slip between them and disappear. “I am beyond mortification. I behaved like a… like a _greenling_ experiencing a first crush.”

“You were mostly very sweet.”

“How could I ever have forgotten you?” sighs the King. “That alone shall shame me for the rest of my life. My very own _heart_.”

“Good grief. Thorin, you were ill, I do not blame you one bit!” Bilbo slaps him gently on his shoulder, only sparing him a pinch to his ear for the sake of his injuries. “Besides, _I for one_ hope yet it’s a very long life you will live. And I have made good progress coming up with ways you may repent for it.”

Thorin stares, longing and lovingly, and thinks how no dwarf can possibly be as blessed as he is now, with a home for his family, a crown for his head, and a husband to love until the end of his days. “I will do anything.”

Bilbo’s answering smile is one full of promise. “How about you kiss me, for a start? And you had better make it one to remember.” And so, he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this, consider giving me a follow!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr [@stupidfatpenguin](https://stupidfatpenguin.tumblr.com/) and I usually post my warm-up exercises there. I would love to talk about The Hobbit / Lotr with you, spread the love for Bagginshield or maybe share a prompt or two!


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